Tracks Of My Tears
by cate's corner
Summary: Danny's driving, so he's in charge of the radio. Bon Jovi rules, of course, so he should be happy - so why is he behaving so oddly? Steve tries to work out why. Steve/Danny friendship


I must start this note with a heartfelt thank you to AZGirl, who has kindly encouraged me to write this story. The idea for it came after reading her story, Still The Song.

Although they are not directly connected, I'd ask you to read AZGirl's story first. It's a beautiful testament to Steve and Danny's friendship, and it also conveys the same message that I hope to convey here - that songs can bring back powerful memories. Some bring comfort, just as others bring pain. And since you know how much I love to whump poor Danno, I think you'll know where this story will take him.

This is a single chapter one shot, and it's set fairly early in the series, so Steve's friendship with Danny is still developing. But when he realizes that Danny is hurting, he still wants to help.

My thanks again to AZGirl. This is your story, my friend. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Tracks Of My Tears

Steve McGarrett wasn't _really_ a detective. That title had come to him out of necessity, _not_ experience. No, he was a Navy SEAL, more used to pursuing terrorists than solving a mystery of puzzling clues. Maybe that was why it had taken him so long to notice this quirk in his new partner's behaviour.

Danny, of course, would have noticed it long before now. Then again, _he_ was a detective. A damn good one, at that.

In his defence, it was hard to spot such patterns when the chance to do so happened so infrequently. After all, as Danny _never_ tired of telling him, he rarely got the privilege to 'drive my own damn car'. And to his further chagrin, it was always the driver, never the passenger, who chose the music – the position of the CD compartment making it impossible for said passenger to do anything about it.

He'd tried, of course. Danny Williams wouldn't be Danny Williams if he didn't at least try to right what he saw as a heinous wrong. But however hard he stretched, he just couldn't get his arm to grow those last, extra few inches. The fact that he'd almost put his shoulder out, he'd sulkily insisted, _really_ wasn't relevant.

Today, though, and probably for the next few days too, it was Steve's turn to ride shotgun – a badly wrenched elbow giving Danny one of those blue moon chances to drive his own car. And just as Steve had known he would, the first thing he'd done was change the CD in the radio.

His choice? Hell, what else? Danny was a Jersey boy through and through. So was Bon Jovi. Sometimes it was hard to tell who was the louder. Thank God he'd brought the earplugs.

'_Predictability_, _thy name is Daniel._'

That wasn't strictly true, of course. Danny was one of the most _un_predictable people he'd ever met. A five foot five inch bundle of noise and energy. A living puzzle of quirks and contradictions.

In these first few weeks of working with him, those quirks had flown at him, thick and fast. He had most of them pegged now. He knew when Danny was upset, or angry, or frequently both. But this barely noticeable movement had left Steve puzzled, curious, and increasingly concerned.

Danny could listen to his homestate singer for hours on end, deafening them both in the process. At full, teeth-vibrating volume, Livin' On A Prayer was his wheel-thumping favourite. It was a miracle that part of the CD hadn't disintegrated, or that the radio hadn't blown up in protest.

_This_ track, though, was exactly the opposite. Before it even started, Danny _always_ skipped over it. He'd skip the next one too, only relaxing back in his seat when the display read 'What Do You Got?' and its first verse thumped gently through the speakers.

In the complex world of Daniel 'Jersey Boy' Williams, two songs on this CD were an absolute no-no.

It had just happened again, the smoothly mercurial lean forward to reach the radio, and – damn it, why would Jersey's proudest son, and Bon Jovi's loudest fan, want to do that?

The clues were there, of course. You just needed to be observant enough to notice their subtlety. Now, still studying Danny's profile, his posture, his body language, it started to fall into place.

His eyes stayed locked ahead on the road in front of them, scanning it for barely existent traffic. A hard swallow snaked down his throat. The muscles along his jaw imperceptibly tensed. Less visible tension set into his arms, keeping them braced solid against the steering wheel.

In just those few seconds, Steve felt pain. Crippling regret. Bitter grief for a cruelly lost dream. And in silent sympathy, his own regret for not noticing it sooner, he finally pieced the puzzle together. These two songs, whatever they were, reminded his partner of the failure that still haunted him.

That would always haunt him.

The breakup of his marriage. A bitter and painful divorce, and all the misery that had followed. He'd lost everything. His wife, his daughter, his home. And, of course, he'd been forced to come here.

In solving the mystery, though, Steve was now faced with an unexpected and difficult problem – how to offer his friend support when, ironically, he wasn't supposed to know _why_ that friend needed it. He couldn't say anything, but – well, that was okay. He'd always preferred actions to words anyway.

His only regret, along with all the others, was that he had to wait several more minutes to take it. But as soon as they arrived at the Palace, and they were out of the car, he quietly made his move - falling into step at Danny's side, and placing his hand on his shoulder as they walked towards their HQ.

Despite the rocky start to their partnership, these friendlier gestures were happening more often now. Pats on the back, nudges on the arm, and the odd fist-bump had strengthened the bond between them. Reinforced the unique connection that had somehow formed between two completely disparate minds.

It had got to the point where they could almost read each other's thoughts, however dark they were. So when Danny finally raised his head to look up at him, Steve's face already held a gentle smile – one that was returned in kind with a slight nod, and heartfelt gratitude in his partner's eyes.

'_Thank you._'

By the time they reached their suite upstairs, Steve could feel much of the tension drain away from Danny's shoulders. Giving his partner a final, grateful smile, Danny then headed into his office to start chasing down their latest leads, giving Steve the chance to move on into his office too, to do some discreet detective work of his own.

Within minutes, he'd found what he was looking for, and regret for what his partner had lost returned, in a wince of realization. He'd heard both of these songs before, but had no reason to think too deeply about their titles, or the haunting lyrics that his searches had revealed.

Until now. Until he'd read through them, and understood why Danny just couldn't listen to these now painfully poignant tracks.

The first song. Always. Yes, that really summed up the depth of pain of a once happy but bitterly ended marriage. And the second track that Danny had skipped over. In These Arms. How many times had he listened to those lyrics, during the long lonely nights in his apartment, and bitterly wondered what might have been?

He hid it so well, of course. He hid so much pain behind those endless jokes and bickering insults. But Steve could recognize a vulnerability to him now, that he instinctively responded to. After all, it was his duty now, both as a partner and as a friend, to make sure that Danny didn't get hurt. Physically or emotionally, it didn't matter. He'd protect his friend from _anything_ that threatened to hurt him.

So as he quietly watched his friend, Steve made him a silent and private promise. Every time that Danny needed to talk, he'd be there, to supportively listen.

Always.

Because that's what partners, and friends, and brothers, did.


End file.
